


A Work of Art

by MotherGrim



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherGrim/pseuds/MotherGrim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titus Abrasax is not allowed in Balem's quarters. He hides when he hears his brother approaching. Unknowingly, Balem gives him quite the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little cruddy thing that I wrote for JA kink meme. Has now been beta'd!

Titus first noticed that Balem was not overfond of being touched at an early age. Being young, and as happy a child as he was, Titus was always bouncing towards Balem for a hug or kiss; he fancied that feeling of affection, a rare commodity from the other members of his family. He most often received it from Kalique, in small, passive pats of his head or gestures of impulsive kindness, aimed specifically for Titus himself. The rest of their family had always been reserved, or perhaps aloof had a more accurate definition. They seemed to him as fragile items of value, and Titus learned, in light of this, to keep his distance, despite how he wanted to touch, as a child often did, and feel the sense of each of them on the pads of his fingertips, establish them as safe, and profoundly his, because they shared his blood.

Specifically Balem, who, coincidentally and seemingly typical of an cruel universe that proved ever determined to keep him from what he desired, wanted even less to do with him than their mother. Tall, speckled, graceful not only in appearance but in practice, and when there is a thing, a work of art that possesses an undeniably eerie beauty, Titus himself could never forget that desire. He would, especially as this younger version of himself, sneak off into Balem's quarters and climb the spiral stairwell that's mouth opened into a loft, home to a lovely collection of beautiful objects, shimmering in the light; rare works of art from planets that had already been harvested, and now were preserved like ancient artifacts from a place known only in myth. Allure found itself a willing victim in Titus, and even after he had been banished, lest he be tattled on by his brother, the more he did it, the less he found himself capable of staying away.

Beauty bid him to return every time.

Specifically, he favored the flecks of dark skin splashed across Balem’s face, also spreading down his naked back, as Titus caught one day, many years after the fact. They peppered him in a way reminiscent of an ancient fish, a koi, boasting nobility and grace. He watched, but in secret of course, unwelcome but unable to stop himself from sneaking in to admire Balem's treasures. How many times had he been dragged away, kicking and screaming? Enough, he told himself, that he'd memorized the way his voice echoed off the high-arching walls. That had been years ago, nearly a millennium now, and oh, how he'd learned to keep his voice in check. That stillness; that downward glance and upturned chin; one's royal air in practice.

It came in handy now, looking down and keeping silent, observing from above as Balem was left alone, descending into his pit of a bedchamber, decorated with glowing reds and vital browns, lit like the backdrop of war; the only thing his brother seemed concerned with these days. Stark golden eyes lost in images of it, positioned above his hard, straight line of a mouth. It was all a younger brother could do, but lean over the edge just a bit, intending to say something cutting on the edge of sass, until he realized what exactly was occurring. Balem, assuming he was the sole inhabitant in that room as the doors shut tight doors shut tight, ran his hands along his rib cage, exploring these lands torn to pieces by dreams of conflict. He touched as though unobserved, and Titus wasn't about to correct him.

It was then that long digits traveled further down, running along the waist of his robes, dancing dangerously low to reveal that he was freckled nearly everywhere. A creature, always, before, so repulsed by the thought of touch, and here; what a sight, then, to see his palms exploring the contours in his now exposed torso, upper robe falling down past his shoulders, but still caught, dangling long at his wrists. Even now, he was careful, and beautiful, and most of all, cold. Titus said nothing, and Balem did everything like he was not there, hands swooping beneath, taking himself in his palm. One by one, he curled each finger around himself, only half-hard and seemingly unprompted to be, eyes not yet closed, but narrowed into dreamy slits as he slid his knuckles down his full length, from base to tip, then back again.

Titus licked his lips -- his mouth was dry, arid like a desert, glance trained on Balem. No twitch or flick or detail would go undocumented, as if a fine painting, as if a sculpture carved from marble. Older brother let out a quiet sigh, head falling back in reaction to his thumb swiping over the very tip of his prick, reveling in the feeling of slow buildup. Younger brother swallowed then, because Balem's expression hadn't changed, aside from the parting of his lips, through which he began to draw ragged breaths. Perhaps they matched his own; he had only just realized that his mouth had fallen slightly open as well, gripping onto the wrought-iron railing with no small amount of force, leaning forward.

And then, in one small moment, it happened. Both glances locked, Balem's slightly startled as it widened and flooded with anger or, perhaps hatred, as if shouting, without speaking at all. Something changed then, from calculating and articulate to half mad as Balem forced his own mouth shut, stroking faster, deep intakes of breath coming fast through his nostrils, loud and expressive as he worked himself over, faster and faster until Titus almost couldn't stand to watch,  heavy and tense with the urge to climb back down from the loft and take on the action upon himself, but every small jolt of movement caused a subtle snarl to form momentarily in Balem's expression -- he wanted Titus exactly where he was, watching, waiting in pulsing agony.

A punishment for being somewhere he didn't belong, Titus mused. He pressed himself shamelessly against the railing, greedy for a sliver of friction when his brother's eyes finally fell shut. His mouth came open again, brows knitting together in a distant beg as he drew nearer, and Titus knew it, could feel that he was there, lingering in his brother's mind. Balem's teeth sank into his own lip, swallowing back a quiet keen, one that came back up over and over again with increasing volume. On each forte, Titus' desperation became stronger, practicality rutting by then, in a savage, appreciative display.

Even after thousands of years, Balem can't keep himself totally quiet when he comes, and that time was no different. The sound is less a groan or moan, more a desperate howl trapped inside of him, sensitive as he pressed on, milking his orgasm for all it was worth as his hips moved forward just slightly in tandem -- or rather, on opposite rhythm -- with his palm. Titus felt it at the base of his spine, the sight, the sound and gesture, all reverberating through him, trailing lust in warm tendrils within, even as Balem slowed down and allowed himself a moment of bliss in his glow. His strokes didn't stop immediately, but rather diminished gradually, gaze penetrating Titus the whole time, once his eyes had opened again. Even as he finally came to a full cease, he let his hand linger there, watched his younger brother's movements and perceived him with a mounting disgust.

"Get out." He offered it once, quietly. The urge to argue must have surfaced in Titus' face, perhaps with a furrowed brow or stiffening of his features, but when Balem repeated himself, there was no room for any discussion; his voice rising to a new, yet unknown to Titus at that point, volume. "I said get out! Leave me!" He waved a sleeve at Titus, who did not hesitate them, clambering down the stairwell and past his brother, hard himself, and left with no relief.

Just as Titus nearly threw himself out the door, Balem meets him there, same fingers that he’d used to get himself off then curling in the collar of Titus’ shirt and pulling him close, jaw squared as conflict echoed behind his glance, fiery and dangerous. "If I should catch you in here again," It was a murmur, a threat if Titus ever heard one. "I will end you. Know that as the truth, little brother." With a shove, a turn and slam, there is was again, the cold, the silence.

The thought occurred to Titus, as he shamefully wandered back into his own familiar territory a great distance away from Balem's gloomy part of the place, that perhaps it wasn't such a shame Balem disliked being touched. Works of art are things to be preserved, appreciated distantly, but never, ever handled.


End file.
